


disproven by physics

by doublejoint



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Aomine can’t wait to kiss him when they’re sober.
Relationships: Aomine Daiki/Midorima Shintarou
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	disproven by physics

**Author's Note:**

> drinking, refs to smoking/smoking-related disease, mild existential thoughts

The glass wobbles on the balcony, the hollowed bottom doing it no favors. Aomine has never been sure if that does something functional to the drink or the glass or if it’s just there to look pretty and to advertise the brand etched into the ridges, or to give drunk people something over which to run their fingers and pretend they’re keeping steady. The remains of Aomine’s rum and Coke (and half-melted ice) threaten to splash over the edges; the glass tips forward as if to fall off entirely and Midorima’s hand reaches out to grab it and hold it steady. He doesn’t pluck it off; that’s odd. His arm is outstretched, almost curled around Aomine, and Aomine would like to think he can feel the heat of Midorima’s body.

“Yes?” says Aomine.

“Don’t do that,” says Midorima. “It could fall down and kill someone.”

“What, like a penny thrown off the Empire State Building? Didn’t they, like, disprove that with physics?”

“Glass is much more dangerous,” says Midorima. “It could hit off the building and shatter.”

Aomine rolls his eyes, not that Midorima can see from this angle. He’s still practically wrapped around him, way more physical than Midorima usually lets himself get with anyone. (Or, really, lets anyone get with him. Or both? Whatever. Aomine’s only a little tipsy, if that.)

“And you’d be liable.”

“Even if I weren’t, it would be awful,” says Midorima, his tone inflected with a little bit of hurt, which, okay.

“Sorry,” says Aomine. 

He turns around, leaning against the railing, so Midorima can see his face. Midorima looks a little hurt, still, like he had when they were small kids and someone (usually Haizaki) had spilled paint or juice or mud on his impeccably-pressed uniform pants, or when he’d been in the midst of explaining something only he’d found interesting and someone else had interrupted before he could finish. Aomine had felt bad back then, and so had Satsuki, but neither of them had ever done anything, ,and now he’s got enough perspective to kind of feel guilty about that. Ah, fuck.

“You weren’t smoking out here, were you?” says Midorima.

“Nope,” says Aomine, and that’s the truth.

“Good,” says Midorima. “The coop board doesn’t allow it.”

Aomine nods. He’s really been trying to kick the habit; he can bring himself down to two or three smokes a day but it’s been hard to go below that. Even knowing what could happen, even having seen his older relatives with coughs, stained fingers, hooked up to oxygen machines--it’s hard to reconcile that with himself, right now. He’s young, but he’s always been young and he’s running out of time, once weirded out by being closer to twenty than ten (that had been close enough that he can recall the memory, his mother having met him after soccer practice on the west side with a lukewarm coffee, and they’d been waiting on Broadway for their driver and he’d almost said it out loud to her but had stuffed it back into his mouth and pulled out his flip phone to check his text messages) and he’s now used to inching closer to thirty and away from twenty, trying to pry his own fingers away from youth to try and age gracefully. 

He wants to be flippant enough to let the glass sit on the railing, drunk enough to be unaware of the consequences of it falling, confident enough to will it to stay. He’s only aware of his failure to do so, however, and that leaves his mouth dry and rusty, like the bathtub faucet after a month of no usage because he’s been on vacation. 

Midorima’s arm is still close to him, but it doesn’t feel invasive or even really awkward. It’s still noteworthy, because it’s Midorima, but--Midorima rarely throws parties in the first place. 

“You doing okay?”

Midorima nods. His cheeks are slightly flushed, whether from the alcohol or the cold Aomine’s not quite sure. The vest of his suit (Armani? It looks like Armani but Aomine wouldn’t bet on it right now) is unbuttoned halfway, and his shirt is slightly rumpled, as if he’d been caught making out with someone in the pantry. Aomine swallows; the idea of that makes him shift and twitch, suddenly aware of the strain that leaning like this has on his back.

“Are you?” Midorima returns.

“Yknow,” says Aomine. “Like always.”

He flashes a crooked grin and holds out his hand. Midorima looks at it, uncertain.

“Can I have my drink back?”

“I...oh,” says Midorima.

“I’ll take your hand if you’re offering that,” says Aomine. 

Midorima flushes darker and presses the glass into Aomine’s hand. It’s colder than the air against his palm, and he curls one finger into the hollow on the bottom. He could say that he’d rather have Midorima’s hand, but he’s sober enough for it to sound stupid in his head. He should say it anyway. Midorima’s still looking at him. 

“I would take your other hand but I don’t want you to fall over,” says Midorima, quite seriously. “And I’m sorry--I know back in middle school and high school, things were difficult and I never stepped in, and if things are still like that for you—”

Aomine holds up his other hand, steadying himself on his feet. Midorima stops, and Aomine bends down to set down the glass. He holds out both of his hands, palms up.

“I mean, I never stopped people from talking over you when we were kids,” says Aomine. “We’re even at bystanding or whatever.”

Midorima cracks a half-smile, and he takes Aomine’s hands. His are smooth, soft, as if they’re not used to smattering against keyboards and fluttering against a piano and all the other things he does all day that, while certainly they aren’t manual labor, aren’t nothing. 

“I did want your hands,” Aomine says, leaning up closer to Midorima’s face.

“I know,” Midorima says.

Right, he’s holding them now. (Aomine can’t wait to kiss him when they’re sober.)


End file.
